


I have seen what the darkness does (Say goodbye to who I was)

by trashgoblinwizardparty



Series: October 2019 Flash Prompt Fest [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Captivity, Cock Warming, Dubcon Cuddling, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Dirty Talk, M/M, Masturbation, Meaningless Consent, Soul Bond, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-01-06 04:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21220409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashgoblinwizardparty/pseuds/trashgoblinwizardparty
Summary: Harry is captured in the woods.What follows is an exploration of the nature of souls.Or, Harry's scar only stops hurting when he's touching Voldemort and sexy times ensue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miraculous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miraculous/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [Miraculous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miraculous/pseuds/Miraculous) in the [October_Flash_Fest_Part_Two](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/October_Flash_Fest_Part_Two) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> Harry's scar hurts when he's near Voldemort because the horcrux is trying to escape through the scar.  
Harry's scar STOPS hurting when they have sex, because the horcrux thinks they've become one again.  
Harry is conditioned to want sex all the time to avoid the hurt. Voldemort isn't complaining  
:heybby:
> 
> This is actually a sequel of sorts to "Follow me into the endless night (I can bring your fears to life)" though you don't need to read that to read this. 
> 
> UNBETAED! NO GODS NO MASTERS NO KINGS :maniacal:

The pain in his head was a constant, unending thing. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t even see straight. Not that there was much to see in the small, dark cell.

The walls were familiar, the small bed lumpy and hard. The low ceiling sloped at an angle.

It was the cupboard under the stairs.

And yet, it wasn’t.

Harry’s flight through the forest had ended at a sheer cliff with tree roots coiling around him, trapping him, leaving him at Voldemort’s mercy. And then everything went dark.

When Harry awoke, he was in the cupboard under the stairs. Or at least, something that_ looked _ like the cupboard under the stairs. It wasn’t quite the same: it was bigger, since there was no way Harry would still fit in the original at seventeen, and the corners and angles didn’t meet they way they should. It was as if he was in a room that loosely mimicked his memory of the cupboard—except bits were pushed, pulled, and expanded to fit.

He’d tried the door, of course, but it was locked. He hadn’t expected anything different, really. 

His scar gave a particularly hard throb and he clutched at his forehead.

The door to his cupboard gave a loud creak and swung open. Harry looked up, blearily.

Tom Riddle—no, Voldemort wearing Tom Riddle’s handsome face—stood just outside the door, gazing down at him.

“What d’you want,” Harry snapped, rubbing at his scar.

Voldemort tilted his head and raised an eyebrow at the inside of the cupboard.

“So this is the form the _ Claustrum _ took for you?”

“The what?”

Instead of elaborating, Voldemort held his hand out to Harry.

Harry looked at Voldemort and then at the proffered hand and back again. “Fuck off.”

A fresh spike of pain drove itself into Harry’s brain, pulsing like fire along every nerve. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, not wanting to give Voldemort the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

“Such a foul mouth you have, Harry,” Voldemort chided. “Take my hand.”

Harry dared to crack an eye open. “What if I don’t?”

Voldemort shrugged. “Then I shall assume you like being in small, dark places and leave you here.”

And with that, Voldemort shut the door, leaving Harry alone in the dark. 

* * *

The next time Voldemort paid him a visit, Harry was curled at the end of the bed, tucked into the corner where the ceiling of his prison sloped downwards to meet the floor. He was alternating between too hot and freezing, having kicked the thin sheet off only to wrap himself up in it again several times.

He didn’t know how long he’d been in here. It was as if time had stopped. He felt no need to eat, or sleep, or even use the bathroom. After the first few hours (minutes? Days? Centuries?), Harry had given up on trying to make sense of it, grateful at least he didn’t have hunger pains and a full bladder to deal with in addition to the unrelenting pain in his head.

“Harry,” Voldemort said. “Will you take my hand now?”

“No,” Harry snapped.

But there was a small, shameful part of him that wavered.

If Voldemort felt it through the bond, however, he gave no sign, and closed the door on Harry again. 

* * *

Time stretched unending. The pain in Harry’s head ebbed and flowed like the tide. Sometimes, he’d get a sense of what Voldemort was doing or feeling, and other times, he’d get nothing but static.

Harry started to wonder if he was dead after all.

Not needing to eat or drink or sleep surely meant he couldn’t be alive anymore, right?

But his heart still beat within his chest, and his lungs still drew breath. The pain in his head was his only companion.

Harry slept, to pass the time, even if he didn’t actually feel the need to sleep, it was a way to escape the boredom and pain. He felt he might go mad. Maybe he already had.

Madness might explain why, when Voldemort came for him a third time and offered his hand, Harry took it. 

* * *

He had expected nothing but agony from their proximity, but the moment his trembling fingers brushed against Voldemort’s palm, the pain in his head receded.

When Voldemort’s long fingers closed around Harry’s, all Harry could feel was relief. He closed his eyes and a sigh escaped, entirely against his will.

When he opened his eyes, they were no longer in the cupboard, but in a large, lavish bedroom. The walls were dark panels of wood, and dark green velvet curtains hung around a four-poster bed.

Harry froze.

He tried to pull his hand away, but Voldemort’s grip was deceptively strong.

“Where—”

“I thought perhaps you’d appreciate more luxurious surroundings, if you are to be my...permanent guest,” Voldemort said. “But I can always put you back in the _ Claustrum _ , if you prefer.”

It was then that Harry noticed what Voldemort held in the hand that wasn’t wrapped around Harry’s: a small, diamond-shaped object that looked a bit like two pyramids stuck together at their bases. Inside the thing—the_ Claustrum _—was a confusion of planes and angles and shifting colors. Harry squinted at it.

“I was inside that thing?”

“Yes, and I shall put you back the very moment you disobey me,” Voldemort promised, his nightmarish red eyes glinting dangerously.

The bond between them pulsed a warning, and that was all Harry needed to know. He nodded.

Voldemort led him over to the bed and pushed him down onto it. For a wild, horrible moment, Harry thought Voldemort would climb in with him. A ghost of amusement flickered along their bond at that, and Harry went hot and then cold. 

Then Voldemort took his hand away and the pain in Harry’s scar returned with a vengeance. 

He curled up on the soft bed and shuddered. 

* * *

There was a bathroom beyond the only door that Harry could see off the bedroom, with a large tub and sweet-smelling soaps. Harry was glad to have a chance to soak his aching body and clean up. Fresh clothing appeared on the rack: simple, black robes. Harry looked around for his old clothes—the last of his worldly possessions—and felt a pang of sorrow when he couldn’t find them.

He heaved a sigh and dressed in the robes. They slid silkily over his body. They may have been simple, but the material was fine and almost sensuous.

It was only after he’d settled the robes around his body that he realized there was no underwear.

With a burning face, Harry stalked back into the bedroom.

Voldemort was lounging on the bed.

“Come here.”

Harry stood in the doorway of the bathroom, rooted to the spot. He refused to move.

“So stubborn,” Voldemort said.

Pain flared sharp and incandescent behind Harry’s eyes, so violent that he thought his head would split right in two. It ran along every nerve hot, electric, and unending. It was not the same as Crucio—it was brighter, somehow, and centered upon the scar on his forehead. Tendrils of agony tore through his body...surely he was dying…

And just as quickly as it started, it stopped.

He opened his eyes. Voldemort stood over him, much, much taller than he should have been. Harry realized then that he was curled on the floor.

His hand was resting on Voldemort’s bare foot. He scrambled backwards and the pain returned, but it was a dull echo of what it had been before. Voldemort gazed down at him with an unreadable expression. Wordlessly, he held a hand out.

Harry took it.

Just as he’d suspected, the pain ebbed away completely the moment he touched Voldemort’s bare skin. Voldemort pulled him to his feet, and then slowly, inexorably, reeled him in even closer. Harry’s breathing had gone ragged and his heart pounded like it was trying to beat its way out of his ribs.

Harry noticed then that Voldemort’s robes dipped down in a deep vee at his chest, exposing a slice of bare skin. His cheeks burned with shame but he buried his face in Voldemort’s chest all the same. The pain in his scar was a distant memory now, and he shuddered with the relief of it. His fingers twisted into Voldemort’s robes, and arms wrapped possessively around him, caging him in.

Harry silently begged forgiveness of his parents’ memories, of Dumbledore, of Sirius, Ron, and Hermione, as tears flowed freely down his face and the bond between him and Voldemort sang in triumph. 

* * *

[to be continued in the next chapter...probably tomorrow]

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part two...of three...whoops. 
> 
> this one's a bit spicy but things heat up more in the next chapter...which is coming along shortly...
> 
> no betas we die like mne

Harry had a problem. 

A problem beyond the obvious—being trapped in a room with only occasional visits from his mortal enemy for company, knowing that the war must have fallen in Voldemort’s favor. 

The pain in Harry’s scar was a constant companion, a low-level aggravation with the occasional spike into true torment. Yet, that was not the problem either. His problem was rather more...tactile in nature.

Harry’s problem was when the pain stopped. 

Because the pain only stopped when he touched Voldemort skin-to-skin. 

And the more skin contact they had, the better Harry felt. 

That...was a definite problem. Because now, he almost looked forward to Voldemort’s visits, almost desired his casual touches, even as his logical mind rebelled. 

Voldemort would visit him at odd times (from what Harry could tell, at any rate—he had no way of knowing what time it was, as there were no clocks, no windows) and no matter how hard Harry tried to resist, he always went willingly into Voldemort’s arms in the end. 

What started simply as a way to be free of pain for an hour became something Harry craved, and hated himself for craving. 

The first time Voldemort suggested it, Harry was appalled. _Touching?_ _Cuddling?_ With _Voldemort?_

The first time, Harry had held stock-still, rigid and uncomfortable, lying on his back on the bed as Voldemort had instructed. Voldemort stretched languorously out beside him, like an overgrown cat. 

From the echo of amusement Harry felt through the bond, Voldemort had obviously picked up on that thought. 

Arms snaked around Harry and pulled him close. Harry...didn’t actively resist, but he didn’t make it easy for him, either. 

But the respite from pain that skin contact offered was quickly becoming addictive. A small, horrible part of him was glad that none of his friends or family were around (alive) to see him like this: lying on his side upon a luxurious bed with Voldemort’s arms wrapped around him, Voldemort’s hands carding possessively through his hair as Harry pressed his scar right against where Voldemort’s wicked heart beat. 

* * *

Harry had no word of the outside world. He never saw anyone else, not even a house elf. Meals appeared on a silver tray set upon a side table. Clothes (always the same silky black robes— _ only _ robes—no shoes, no socks, no trousers, no underwear) manifested in the large wardrobe. The bath soaps and towels replenished themselves once he left the bathroom. 

Harry had books, but they were either so boring he couldn’t get into them, or in foreign languages. 

There was nothing to do. 

He’d taken to napping, but even that had lost its appeal. 

He paced around the room, restless, like a caged animal at the zoo. The dark wood panels on the walls revealed no secrets, even after several (dozen? hundred?) times knocking at them, trying to find hidden passages. The plush carpet held no trap doors underneath, and under the bed was as normal an under-the-bed as it was possible to be in a wizarding home. 

Harry flopped onto the silken sheets and stared up at the canopy. Lately, he’d noticed almost an...itch. A buzzing restlessness that he couldn’t place. It accompanied the ever-present ache in his scar, and seemed to grow more intense when his mind drifted to Voldemort. 

He shifted on the bed and suddenly was very aware of the way the silken fabric of his robe slid across his thighs, his stomach, and…

A rush of heat crept up his neck as he felt his cock twitch. 

It had been a very long time since he’d last felt the need to wank. He’d rather had other things on his mind. 

A quick glance around the room confirmed he was indeed alone. Voldemort came and went as he pleased, and didn’t bother with a door—not that there was one aside from the bathroom—but Harry was fairly certain he wouldn’t come until later. 

Harry sat up and made short work of closing the curtains around the bed. 

Alone in the dubious safety of the bed, Harry lay back down. His scar throbbed in time with his now aching-hard cock. Feeling guilty for reasons he couldn’t name, Harry cupped himself through the fabric of the robe and let out a groan. He ground his palm against his erection, rolling his hips and luxuriating in the silken slide of the robe against his cock. 

It was only when he felt the wetness of precome through the fabric that he pulled the robe up, thinking it best to not get it messy with come. It slithered sensuously over the head of his cock and he nearly came then and there from the sensation. 

He moaned again, and stuffed the fingers of his left hand in his mouth while he worked himself with his right. His hand was hot and rough and...not enough. He groaned in frustration and pulled his fingers out of his mouth. He circled the base of his cock with his right hand and rubbed the spit-slick fingers of his left over the head, mingling saliva and precome. 

He tried thinking of nothing, because thoughts of Ginny (brown eyes wide and vacant as she fell like a puppet with its strings cut after being hit by a green-light spell) and Cho (broken on the floor of the Great Hall, her neck at an unnatural angle, and the bodies of two Death Eaters strewn beside her) were too raw, too painful. 

Harry had to stop for a moment, had to breathe, while he blinked back tears. He released his now wilting cock and curled up on his side to seek the escape of sleep. 

* * *

The buzzing itch did not go away, in the days (hours? Weeks?) that followed. In fact, it had only worsened. Combined with the ever-present pain in his scar, the need to wank intensified. 

But he couldn’t bring himself off, no matter what he did, or what he thought of. Even when he’d trot out his most hidden fantasies: Cedric following him up to the prefect’s bathroom during the Triwizard Tournament (Cedric’s lifeless eyes reflecting the starlight in a graveyard), Sirius as Harry remembered him from Snape’s Pensieve memories, young and handsome and full of life (Sirius laughing as he fell backwards through the Veil). Being sandwiched between Ron and Hermione in a too-small bed while on the run (Ron and Hermione, holding hands as a powerful blastwave obliterated them in a flash of light).

Harry gave up. He rolled over and pressed his face into a pillow, choking back his grief. 

And that was how Voldemort found him, hours (minutes?) later. 

Harry barely registered the bed dipping behind him. Was barely aware of the hands of his mortal enemy bringing relief from the pain in his head. 

* * *

Harry swam into consciousness with his head feeling clearer than it had in ages. He was comfortably warm and blessedly pain-free. He kept his eyes closed and relished in the feeling. He felt... _ safe _ . 

And then he realized he couldn’t move because something was holding him in place. 

Or rather, _ someone _ . 

Harry went very still. Arms were wrapped around him from behind, caging him in; a hand rested upon his chest beneath the robe, directly over his heart; a leg was wedged between his thighs. The other hand...the other hand had slipped up under the robe and was splayed across his stomach. 

Harry’s back was pressed tight against Voldemort’s front, and he dared not move. 

The _ itch _ returned with a vengeance. All the pent-up frustration had combined with the respite from pain and the grounding presence of a warm, solid body holding him from behind and horribly, Harry felt his cock fill. 

Harry stayed frozen in place, barely daring to breathe. His mind had gone blank and crackly, like static on a muggle television screen. The silken robe had been rucked up in his sleep, exposing his arse and now-leaking cock. 

Voldemort must be sleeping, had to be sleeping, there’s no way—no fucking way—he would have done this while awake...right? Harry tried to force his mind to work. He needed to get out, get away. Go...scrub himself red and raw in the bath. His skin crawled while his face burned with shame. 

But...the pain was gone. The pain was only gone while Voldemort touched him, and Harry selfishly didn’t want to give that up just yet. 

Then Voldemort shifted even closer in his sleep, and Harry felt something hot and hard press against the cleft of his bare arse through the fabric of the man’s robe. That buzzing itch intensified and Harry had the worrying impulse to grind himself back against Voldemort’s hard cock. 

_ I’m sick,  _ he thought frantically.  _ I’m sick, I’m sick, I’m sick.  _

“Be silent, Harry,” Voldemort murmured against his neck. 

All of a sudden, rage flowed hot and red throughout Harry’s body, eclipsing the guilt and lust. He hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t even  _ moved _ . 

“I didn’t say anything,” Harry said, his voice hoarse from disuse. If Voldemort heard the fury in it, he didn’t say anything. 

“Your thoughts are too loud. They’re disrupting my rest.” 

“Well I am  _ so very sorry _ that my loud thoughts are disrupting your precious sleep,  _ Tom _ ,” Harry snapped. 

Harry wrenched himself free from Voldemort’s embrace and climbed off the bed with as much dignity as he could muster. He straightened his robe and stalked off to the bathroom with his head pounding and his dick thankfully soft at last. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so as you've noticed, there are now four chapters...the smut IS coming (heh) but it'll be in the next chapter
> 
> and this chapter went to some kinda dark places. CW: for suicide ideation and what could be construed as a suicide attempt...that's not _really_ what's happening, but that's what it looks like? 
> 
> tread carefully, y'all ♥
> 
> (also tread carefully bc this chapter is unbetaed, as the rest of them were)

Harry ran hot water into the tub until it was almost too full to fit him without spilling over, and eased himself in with a hiss. The water was just this side of too hot, but Harry forced himself to stay in anyway. 

His scar throbbed in time with his heartbeat, sending a fresh wave of agony along every nerve with each pulse. He focused on the pain, welcomed it, and scrubbed at his skin until it was pink and angry. Until he felt somewhat clean. 

There was no cleansing of his guilty conscious, however. 

He shut his eyes and leaned back against the side of the tub. The water had gone lukewarm and most of the bubbles had dissipated, only thin clumps floated here and there. He slid down until only his face remained above the surface and closed his eyes. 

_ You’ve betrayed them _, an insidious voice in his head whispered. 

“Stop it,” he said. His voice echoed strangely off the bathroom tiles. 

_ You’ve betrayed their memories. They died for nothing. _

“Stop.” 

_ You let Voldemort comfort you. You seek him out. You don’t want to face the truth, do you? _

“Shut up.” 

_ You crave his hands upon you. _

“Shut.” 

_ What would Dumbledore say if he saw you like this? Sirius? Ginny? _

“UP!” 

_ What would your parents think? _

Harry swallowed, his face burning with shame. “I’m sorry,” he whispered._ “_I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Tears leaked from underneath his squeezed-shut eyelids. 

He remembered the cliff in the forest, just then. How the network of roots were the only thing keeping him from falling over the precipice. How, when Voldemort stood over him gloating in triumph, Harry had let go of the roots, ready to fall into the abyss below. The roots had come alive at Voldemort’s bidding and coiled around him, keeping him from that escape.

He was in danger of falling over a precipice of a different sort, now. 

Harry let out a long, slow breath, and let himself slip even lower, until the water closed over his head. He held his breath until his lungs burned. He remembered the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. The lake. How cold and dark it was. How his lungs constricted when the gillyweed wore off. How it felt to drown. 

Harry held his breath, suspended in the water, while his head pounded. The blood pumping through his veins roared in his ears and drowned out the voices. 

The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back in an empty tub. 

In the space between one moment and the next the water had vanished, and Harry’s aching head thumped against the bottom. His eyes flew open and he drew in a startled breath. 

Voldemort towered above him, his face utterly still. The cold fury radiating off of him was nearly palpable. 

Harry took a breath, and then another. Staring, frozen, up at Voldemort. He hadn’t been afraid of the man, not really. Not until now. 

“Wha—” Harry started. 

“You will not,” Voldemort said. “Do that again.” 

“I-I didn’t...I don’t...I wasn’t—” 

Voldemort held up a hand, and Harry snapped his mouth shut.

“I have been more than generous with you, Harry Potter,” Voldemort said, his voice deceptively calm. “But do not push me.” 

Then, all the rage Harry had felt earlier came crashing back in full force. He heaved himself to his feet, utterly uncaring that he was dripping wet and naked. His hands clenched into fists so tight his fingernails bit into the skin of his palms. 

_ “Why don’t you just kill me? _ ” Harry roared, getting right up in Voldemort’s face. _ “You’ve won! What could you possibly want with me now?” _

Voldemort stood unmoving like a statue against Harry’s wrath, cold and uncaring as marble. 

His lack of response only served to fuel Harry’s rage. All knowledge of magic and spells and even accidental wandless magic deserted him, then. He resorted to the only thing he had left. 

Harry threw a punch right at Voldemort’s face and it connected with his nose. A spray of blood spattered the side of the tub. 

In the same moment, Harry’s scar pulsed electric-hot as if he’d been struck by lightning. He screamed, clutching his hands to his forehead as his legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed into the bottom of the empty tub. His vision darkened at the edges and the roaring in his ears returned with a vengeance. 

Something like an iron vice tightened around his throat and Harry had the disorienting sensation of being pulled bodily upwards. 

Voldemort’s eyes blazed with fury and blood streamed from his nose. His grip on Harry’s neck was unrelenting. 

_ Good, _ Harry thought. _ Good. At least I drew blood. Maybe he’ll kill me now. _

Voldemort was speaking—his mouth was forming words Harry couldn’t hear. It was like a train was roaring by between his ears, as if his head had turned into some sort of interdimensional tunnel. He couldn’t breathe. Now that the choice had been taken from him, all he wanted to do was breathe. 

Then Voldemort’s face contorted into a snarl, and reached into his pocket with his free hand. He withdrew a small, shiny crystalline object that was vaguely diamond-shaped, like two pyramids stuck to each other at their bases. The thing was familiar to Harry, though he couldn’t remember what it was called.

Voldemort brought the—whatever it was—up into his rapidly-diminishing line of sight, and pressed it against the center of Harry’s chest. 

And then Harry knew nothing more. 

* * *

The cupboard walls were closing in on him, he just knew it. He didn’t dare sleep for fear the space would be smaller when he awoke. The thin, moth-eaten sheet on his lumpy little camp bed was no comfort whatsoever. 

Still, he pulled the sheet over his shivering, naked body and curled up as small as he could. His right hand was sore and bloody-bruised, but that pain was nothing compared to the pain in his head. 

His scar was the epicenter, and the tendrils of sheer agony that pulsed through his veins radiated from there. 

* * *

He didn’t know how long he’d been in here. The _ Claustrum. _ That’s where he was. That’s what Voldemort had called it, he remembered now.

It could’ve been days, or minutes. Hours, or weeks. Months. Years. 

Harry rolled over to watch the wall on his other side. Was it closer than it had been? Harry reached out with his uninjured hand and pressed his palm against the familiar splintery wood, as if he could keep the walls from crushing him that way. 

_ “You’re going mad,” _ the voice in his head told him. 

“Yeah, I know,” he said. 

* * *

He was bored. 

Sleeping was out of the question, the pain in his head and throbbing throughout his body wouldn’t allow it. 

He stared up at the slanting ceiling of his prison, the underside of the stairs. His uninjured hand trailed down along his stomach. He needed to do something. Anything. 

He closed his fingers around his soft cock and gave it a stroke. He tried to think of nothing, but it was no use. 

His thoughts strayed to Ginny, to the time she’d kissed him at the Burrow before Bill and Fleur’s wedding. 

_ Ginny lying in a cold chamber deep beneath Hogwarts _. 

Harry’s hand stilled at that thought. No, no, no, no. 

He tried again, forcing himself to think about something—some_ one _—else. Cho. Cho and Cedric, inviting him to join them in the Prefect’s bath. 

But in the middle of that fantasy, the water in the bath drained away, taking Harry with it. Down, down he went, slipping through the pipes like the Basilisk had. Landing at last in the Chamber of Secrets, at the feet of a pale boy with black hair and dark eyes, hunger naked upon his face as he gazed at Harry.

_ “You’ll find I can be very...persuasive.” _

Horribly, Harry’s cock gave a twitch of interest. 

It was the first thing he’d felt apart from the ever-present pain, and Harry grasped onto the feeling with shame. 

He stroked himself to full hardness, thinking of Tom Riddle as he’d appeared before him, that day in the Chamber of Secrets. 

_ “Yes, that’s it, Harry,” _ the Tom of his memory purred. _ “Just give in.” _

This, truly, was his most secret fantasy, the one he never even admitted to himself. But here in the _ Claustrum _, no one would know, no one could see. He rolled his hips, desperate, thrusting into the circle of his fingers, the skin of his cock sliding with his hand. He could see the head shiny with precome already. 

Harry bit his lip and thrust upwards, the scenario in his mind shifting a bit. 

Tom Riddle, as he’d appeared in Dumbledore’s Pensieve memories, a 20-something shop boy with a bouquet of flowers and a charming smile for an old woman. That one superseded the 16-year-old version, and Harry let out a moan. 

_ “That’s right. Fuck your hand and pretend it’s mine.” _

He imagined Tom Riddle, watching him now as he debased himself. He arched into his hand…

_ “It will never be enough...will never compare to the real thing.” _

And flopped back down. His injured hand was too sore, and his uninjured arm was tired. His cock was still hard. 

* * *

This new frustration only added insult to injury. He couldn’t come. Probably whatever it was about the _ Claustrum _ that kept him from needing to eat or sleep also kept him from being able to orgasm, too. 

Not that he hadn’t tried. 

_ “You know the truth now, Harry.” _

Many, many times he’d tried to bring himself off, but nothing worked. 

_ “Nothing you do will get you off.” _

Only now that he knew he couldn’t, his cock wouldn’t go completely soft again, as if it, too, had turned against him. The ache between his legs was more annoying than the agony of his scar.

_ “Nothing except me.” _

He rolled over, now uncaring if the walls would close in on him, pulled the sheet over his head and pressed his hands against his ears. 

“Shut up,” he told the empty air, and closed his eyes. 

* * *

The days became minutes. The years became seconds. 

There was no one and nothing. 

Harry was the only person left in the world, and the world had shrunk down to the cupboard under the stairs. He idly wondered if the world had ended. Was he floating in the vacuum of space, trapped inside the _ Claustrum _forever? 

* * *

He kept trying to wank, possibly out of spite, or madness. 

_ “It is my hand you desire.” _

He’d get close but the climax would be maddeningly just out of his reach. 

_ “My touch alone can bring you relief.” _

Harry let out a primal scream of frustration and clawed at the walls until his fingers were bloody. He tore his sheet to shreds just for something to do, and then cried until his eyes went dry. 

* * *

Voldemort found him that way, curled in the wreckage of the bed. 

He didn’t have to say anything at all, because Harry practically threw himself into Voldemort’s arms. He pressed his face against Voldemort’s chest and sobbed with the instant relief it brought. 

“Don’t leave me,” Harry begged. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Please, Please don’t leave me again. I’ll do anything you want. Anything.” 

Voldemort’s arms wrapped around Harry’s shaking body and held him close. Harry was distantly aware his cock was still hard, and that Voldemort must feel it, pressed tight against him as he was, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more tension and some smut! ...as you can see, there are now 5 chapters because what i thought was going to be 1 chapter would be better split into two. sooooooo the next chapter will be an epilogue of pure filth
> 
> gloriously un-betad

They were back in the bedroom, and Voldemort gently but firmly guided Harry to the bed. 

“Are you ready to behave, Harry?” Voldemort asked. 

“Yes,” Harry croaked. 

Harry slid between silken sheets and stretched. Voldemort still had his hand on his bare shoulder.

Voldemort moved to pull away, but Harry grasped his wrist. “Please…” Harry said, hating himself for sounding so desperate. 

Voldemort said nothing, but slid between the sheets next to Harry. 

Harry abandoned all pretext and cuddled shamelessly closer. He tugged at the front of Voldemort’s robes until they parted and buried his face into his chest. Voldemort shifted them a bit, and Harry whined at the brief loss of skin contact. 

“Oh, how far you’ve fallen, my dear Harry,” Voldemort murmured, stroking his long fingers through Harry’s hair, the back of his neck. 

Harry felt his face heat up with shame, but kept his scar pressed directly over Voldemort’s heart anyway. 

Voldemort pulled him even closer, until they were touching from chest to hip. Harry was still achingly hard, but the respite from the pain in his head kept him from flinching away. 

There was no going back, now. He’d already wanked to thoughts of Tom Riddle, the sin was already done. 

Voldemort’s hands continued to stroke his hair, his neck. Long fingers traced down Harry’s spine and back up again, curious, exploring. 

Harry kept his eyes shut while Voldemort’s hands wandered. 

“How far would you let this go, I wonder?” Voldemort mused. His fingers ghosted over the cleft of Harry’s arse. 

Harry said nothing, and the silence was damning. 

“Look at me.”

Harry stubbornly kept his eyes closed and face pressed to Voldemort’s chest. 

“Harry…” Voldemort said his name as if it were a threat. 

Reluctantly, Harry pulled back. Most of the room was blurry, as he’d not had his glasses on when he’d gone into the  _ Claustrum _ , but Voldemort’s terrible, handsome face was crystal clear this close up. 

Voldemort placed a pale, long-fingered hand along Harry’s cheek, and his red eyes gleamed with triumph when Harry, unblinking, met his gaze. 

Harry didn’t try to fight when Voldemort penetrated his mind. He let himself lay there while the Dark Lord tore through his thoughts with fevered violence. He didn’t bother to hide anything, and Voldemort saw it all. He lingered for a long time on the fantasies of Tom Riddle. 

When he finally extricated himself from Harry’s mind, he wore a thoughtful expression. 

Harry, who had thought he was beyond shame now, after begging to be held and cuddled, after pressing his hard cock against Voldemort’s thigh, found he still had an untapped wellspring of humiliation left. His cheeks flamed hot, and he clapped his hands over his burning face. 

“Now, Harry,” Voldemort chided, grasping one of Harry’s wrists and pulling his hand away from his face. “Did you really think you could hide anything from me? Did you not think that I wouldn’t have noticed  _ this _ ?” 

At that, Voldemort reached down between them and traced a long finger around the swollen tip of Harry’s cock. 

Harry let out a humiliating whine. Voldemort smirked. 

“How pitiful you are, my little fallen hero.” 

Voldemort’s fingertip toyed with the slit of Harry’s cock, smearing precome. 

“Panting after my every touch.” 

The finger stilled, and Harry’s hips twitched forward, chasing the feather-light touch. 

Then, Voldemort brought his finger to Harry’s mouth. Harry kept his lips stubbornly shut.

“Open your mouth, Harry. I want you to taste yourself on my skin.” 

Defiance rose within Harry like the tide. He sent a glare at Voldemort, one that probably had all the menace of a kitten, but it was all Harry could muster. 

“Would you like to go back into the  _ Claustrum _ ?” Voldemort asked, mildly. 

Harry stared at Voldemort and Voldemort stared back. The moment stretched eternally. 

Finally, reluctantly, Harry opened his mouth and let Voldemort in. The salty taste of himself mingled with the sharper, more complex flavor of Voldemort’s skin. 

Harry had expected to gag, but instead, the pain in his scar fled entirely as soon as his lips closed around Voldemort’s finger and he _ moaned _ . His eyelids fluttered shut of their own volition. 

The pain was gone, and in its place a feeling of  _ wholeness _ blossomed and spread, golden and warm like the sun. Harry hummed around Voldemort’s finger and sucked it in deeper, laving his tongue along the underside of it, feeling the joints and creases of skin. 

“Harry.” Voldemort’s voice was oddly choked, husky, like he’d been thrown off-balance. 

With what felt like an enormous effort, Harry opened his eyes. Voldemort was staring at him as if he’d never seen him before. There were high points of color staining his cheekbones, and his pupils were blown so wide the black almost eclipsed the red of the irises. 

They stared at each other again, caught in the moment, the minuscule bit of air between them charged. Harry was very aware of his racing heart, the quick, shallow breaths gusting out from his nose, Voldemort’s finger still in his mouth, rubbing against his tongue. 

Slowly, deliberately, Voldemort removed his finger and Harry let out a breathy whine. The pain rushed back in, even more intense than it had been before. 

Faster than thought, Voldemort rolled Harry onto his back and in the same motion positioned himself so he was pressing Harry down into the bed while supporting himself on his elbows. The weight of him was bizarrely comforting. Being pinned the bed by Voldemort felt... _ good _ .

Now, Harry felt something hot and insistent against his thigh through the fine fabric of Voldemort’s robes. And, perhaps the most damning of all, his own cock had not lost interest in the slightest. 

_ I really am sick _ , Harry thought, despairing. 

But he didn’t struggle or try to escape. Not this time. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, not willing to witness anything that could happen next. Voldemort surrounded him on all sides, caging him in against the bed with his lean body. Whatever happened would not be Harry’s fault. 

But Voldemort didn’t do anything. He stayed utterly still, holding Harry in place. The heat of him warmed Harry to his very bones—this was the most comfortable he’d been in a very long time. 

Harry cracked an eyelid open. Voldemort was staring down at him, his expression unreadable, but his eyes still dark as night. An errant curl of black hair fell across his forehead in a way that forcibly reminded Harry of Tom Riddle at sixteen. 

Harry’s cock gave a twitch at that thought and Voldemort smirked. 

But he still did nothing. 

Harry licked his lips, tried to swallow the dryness from his mouth. He didn’t know what to say. 

Voldemort’s eyebrows quirked up as if to say “ _ Well? _ ” 

The moment stretched on long and taut like a rubber band. 

“What are you waiting for?” Harry bit out at last. 

“What are you expecting from me, Harry Potter?” Voldemort replied immediately, pinning him in place with eyes dark as night. 

“That you...you…” but he couldn’t bring himself to speak the words. “Don’t make me say it. You’ve already won. Just...don’t make me say it.” 

Voldemort tilted his head thoughtfully. “It’s true that I could simply  _ take  _ you,” he mused. “It wouldn’t even be difficult, pinned naked and helpless beneath me as you are…” he rolled his hips for emphasis, his hard, clothed length grinding into the dip of Harry’s groin, next to Harry’s own painfully hard cock. A whimper escaped Harry’s lips at the friction. 

Then, he lowered himself to bring his lips right to Harry’s ear. “But I want to hear you ask for it.”

“Why?” Harry demanded. “Why do you care if I...consent…?” 

Voldemort pulled back. 

“Oh, I don’t care if you do or not,” Voldemort said blandly. “If I simply wanted to fuck you, I would have done so already.” 

“Then why..?” 

“Because.” And now, Voldemort lowered himself again, his lips brushing the shell of Harry’s ear as he murmured: “I want nothing more than your complete and utter  _ surrender _ , Harry Potter.”

Harry felt as though all the breath had been punched from his chest. “I already am,” he croaked. 

“But you’re not. It’s not enough that I take you by force.  _ You _ want me to force you because then it won’t be your fault. But there’s no hiding now. I want you to  _ ask  _ for it. To  _ beg  _ for it.” 

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, shamed by Voldemort throwing his earlier thoughts back at him, and forced his parched throat to work. “Please,” he breathed, the barest whisper, but it was damningly loud in the room. 

“Please what, Harry?” 

“Please...please…” Harry took a deep breath, trying to steel himself. “Please f-fuck me.” 

Voldemort rewarded him with another slow roll of his hips. “There now, was that so hard?” 

Harry let out a choked sound that was somewhere between a moan and a sob, but spread his thighs further apart anyway. He kept his eyes stubbornly shut. 

Voldemort pulled away and Harry felt his head might split in half from the pain. There was a rustle of cloth and when Voldemort returned, it was to press down upon Harry without the barrier of clothing. They were aligned, skin-to-skin, and Harry could feel every inch of Voldemort’s hot, lean body. The contact was almost too much; he felt as though he would melt from the warmth. The pain in his head was now a distant memory. 

Voldemort shifted, adjusting his position so their cocks lined up and then ground against him, setting a tortuously slow pace. It wasn’t just something for Harry to endure—pleasure blossomed between them, flowing through his veins like liquid gold. Voldemort reached between them and wrapped his long fingers around both of them, and when Harry cried out, it wasn’t from pain. It took embarrassingly few strokes before Harry spilled hot and sticky over his own belly. 

“Ah, to be seventeen again,” Voldemort said, his voice low and husky. 

“I’m eighteen now,” Harry mumbled. “...I think.” He still refused to open his eyes. 

Voldemort hummed and pulled back; Harry missed his warmth immediately. Hands stroked down Harry’s legs from hip to knee, caressing slowly, sensuously. It was enough to keep the pain at bay, and Harry felt himself relax, the tension leaching from his body with every sweep of Voldemort’s hands. 

And then his eyes flew open as those hands lifted and spread his legs apart. 

“Wh-what are you—?” 

“Oh, Harry, you didn’t think we were  _ done _ , did you?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :maniacal: i know it's a bit evil to stop here but the next chapter will be pure filth


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes there's YET ANOTHER CHAPTER after this but it's more like a smutty bonus >:3 i'll post it tomorrow
> 
> unbetaed and probably pretty rough...but hey there's porn!

Harry lifted his head and stared at Voldemort in horror for what felt like an eternity. Hadn’t he suffered enough? 

“I thought—I mean…” he glanced down to where his own come was drying in tacky streaks on his stomach and back to Voldemort. 

Voldemort smirked. “You think that because you’ve come means the encounter is over? How selfish of you Harry.” 

“Wha...I…” Harry sputtered. “Can’t you just—” he made a wanking motion with his right hand—which he belatedly realized had been completely healed without his noticing. 

Voldemort chuckled. It was a warm, rich sound—a far cry from the cold, high-pitched laughter Harry remembered from before—and horribly, it went straight to his spent cock, which twitched in renewed interest. _ Traitor _, Harry thought at it. 

“I’m only doing what you asked, what you _ begged _ of me to do,” Voldemort said, meeting Harry’s gaze. He slid into Harry’s mind and ruthlessly pulled up a memory from only a few minutes before: _ “Please f-fuck me.” _ Harry flinched at the breathy neediness in his own voice in the memory. 

Voldemort’s long-fingered hands still stroked and massaged at the flesh of Harry’s outer thighs. Harry’s legs were bent at the knee, bracketing Voldemort’s body, and he could feel the heat of the other man between his thighs. The thought that he’d never had another person between his legs before Voldemort made his face heat up. He let his gaze travel from Voldemort’s face—beautiful and aristocratic—down the hard, flat planes of his chest and stomach to where the hair grew coarser and denser and...Harry had to look away. 

He swallowed hard, gathering the remains of his Gryffindor courage, and forced himself to look upon Voldemort’s hard cock. 

It jutted up proudly out of its nest of dark hair. From Harry’s vantage point prone on the bed it loomed over his own rapidly-filling cock. It was flushed red and the head was shiny with precome. It was also...fairly large. Certainly too large to...to…

Harry tore his gaze away, feeling as if his face was on fire. 

“You should relax, darling. It will be easier for you if you do.” 

Harry glared at Voldemort. 

Voldemort bared his teeth in what might’ve been generously called a predatory grin and gripped the underside of Harry’s knees, giving a sudden tug and pulling Harry bodily across the bed until he could feel the hot length of Voldemort’s cock against his own balls. 

Voldemort’s hands wandered down, caressing along Harry’s inner thighs. His fingers ghosted over Harry’s cock and down to cradle his balls. Then, Voldemort muttered something under his breath and his fingers were slick. 

His fingers traced their way down over Harry’s balls and behind, pressing along that space between his balls and arsehole. Voldemort looked him in the eye as his finger prodded Harry’s hole. Harry yelped at the touch and tried to squirm away. 

“Be still,” Voldemort chided. “Unless you’d _ like _ me to tie you to the bed?” 

Harry’s traitorous cock gave a twitch of interest at that. 

Voldemort smirked at that and hummed. “Perhaps we can explore that later.” 

This, more than anything else, made Harry let out a whine of humiliation he clapped his hands over his face again. 

Voldemort’s finger circled torturously, pressing inexorably in. Harry was expecting it to hurt, and while it did sting a bit, the pain was eclipsed entirely by the feeling of _ wholeness _ that suddenly enveloped him. His scar didn’t hurt at all, not even a dull ache, and pleasure sang along his every nerve. Harry moaned, and instead of trying to get away now he tried to squirm closer, to push himself further onto Voldemort’s finger. 

Voldemort pulled his finger free and before Harry even had a chance to whine at the loss, two fingers breached him, plunging in almost recklessly. Voldemort twisted his fingers, as if he were searching for something. 

Then, they found a spot within Harry that made him arch and cry out from pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Waves of golden warmth washed over him, emanating from the core of his belly and spreading outward. Harry’s fingers twisted into the silken sheets on either side of his head of their own accord as Voldemort mercilessly rubbed at that spot again and again. 

Harry’s cock was throbbing hard against his belly, smearing precome against his skin. His balls were so tight he was afraid they might burst. 

Then, Voldemort removed his fingers, leaving Harry horridly empty. The pain in his scar that he’d nearly forgotten all about threatened to come roaring back—he could feel it at the edges of his awareness—and Harry cried out a broken, breathy “Please.” 

“Harry.” 

Voldemort’s voice broke on his name, completely wrecked. 

Then, something much larger and more blunt than fingers pressed against Harry’s hole. 

Harry whined and wantonly pushed against Voldemort’s cock. Voldemort swore and muttered something under his breath again and a strangely warm sensation rippled along Harry’s lower half. He felt...something... the same spell that Voldemort had used to slick his fingers up had been applied to Harry’s arse. It felt weird and slippery, but Harry was too far gone to care. 

Voldemort’s hands slid beneath Harry’s hips and lifted him up and in the same motion he thrust in. The stretch of it burned, but the feeling of wholeness, of being complete, being _ one, _ broke over Harry like a wave. He relaxed and Voldemort bottomed out with a groan. 

Harry’s knees were over Voldemort’s shoulders, and Voldemort’s hands caressed his hips and thighs. They stayed like that for a long while. Harry arched and moaned and revelled in the utter bliss of being filled, of being _ whole _. Pain and shame were a distant memory, burned away like mist before the rising sun. He could’ve happily stayed that way forever, drowning in the feeling of oneness, with Voldemort inside him until the end of days. 

“Harry,” Voldemort said again, his voice definitely husky. “Open your eyes. I want you to look at me while I fuck you.” 

Reluctantly, Harry cracked an eyelid open. 

Voldemort was staring down at him, his red eyes burning, possessive. The intensity of it was startling, and Harry had never felt more naked, stripped bare before Voldemort’s hungry, roving gaze. 

“Beautiful,” Voldemort murmured, so quiet that he might’ve been speaking to himself. 

Then, he levered himself up on his knees and snapped his hips. His fingers gripped Harry’s thighs so hard he was sure they’d bruise. He set a punishing pace and with every thrust the feeling of wholeness and warmth spread throughout Harry’s body. 

Harry moaned. He had no leverage in this position, no control. Voldemort set the pace. Every thrust of Voldemort’s cock brushed against that spot inside Harry, electric, a warm spark that grew and grew with each pass until he was sure he’d combust. 

Then, Voldemort changed position, dropping forward and catching himself with his hands on either side of Harry’s head. Harry’s legs were still over Voldemort’s shoulders and he was nearly bent in half. His leaking cock drooled precome onto his chest. 

“I’m going to take you in every possible way, Harry Potter,” Voldemort panted directly into his ear. “I’m going to have you in every room of Lucius Malfoy’s ridiculous manor, including on his bed. Perhaps I’ll even make them watch as I do it.” 

Harry felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him, shocked at the things Voldemort was saying. A small part of his brain registered that Voldemort had let their location slip, and he filed it away for later. 

“Do you like that, Harry? Would you like me to pin you down and fuck you in front of all my Death Eaters? Oh, how jealous they would be. How they’d wish they were in your place. Or even my place,” Voldemort breathed directly into Harry’s ear. “But I would only let them watch. Never touch. Never. You are mine and mine only.” 

Harry groaned, his face on fire at Voldemort’s filthy promises. He reached for his aching, neglected cock, only to have his hand stop in midair. 

Voldemort’s hair was disheveled, his face flushed, and his pupils blown so wide the red could barely be seen. Harry marveled at the thought _he_ was responsible for Voldemort's loss of control.

“No touching yourself,” Voldemort admonished. “You’ll come on my cock or not at all.” 

That was all Harry needed to send him over the edge. 

He came with a shout that was quickly muffled by Voldemort’s lips. Voldemort fucked Harry’s mouth with his tongue as he fucked Harry’s arse with his cock. Harry was only dimly aware as Voldemort let out a long groan and warmth flooded inside him, joining the warmth of _ wholeness _ that already lit up his every nerve with pleasure. 

Harry floated, warm and content and whole. His entire body ached with a sweet pleasure, and he sighed as arms wrapped around him. A heavy weight settled over his body, pinning him down, keeping him from flying apart. 

“—horcrux, my horcrux, my Harry,” Voldemort was murmuring, kissing promises into Harry’s neck. “I’ll keep you safe for all eternity. We’ll be the last two wizards in the world. Just you and I, forever.”

Harry wrapped his arms around Voldemort’s shoulders and let sleep pull him under. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there's the epilogue. it's over. it's finally over. 
> 
> unbetaed, as always.

**[Ten years later] **

Harry knelt, completely nude, beneath the large mahogany desk in Voldemort’s office, waiting. The pain in his scar throbbed in time with his hard cock and his mouth watered at what he knew was to come. 

He heard the door shut and the sound of footsteps pace slowly across the floor. The chair moved out from in front of Harry and a robed figure seated himself. Long fingers reached down to card through Harry’s unruly hair. The pain in his scar receded at the touch. The hand drifted down to Harry’s cheek and he turned his face to lean into the touch that brought such relief. 

Then, the hand was gone, leaving only pain and cold in its wake. Harry whined and Voldemort chuckled.

“Soon, my pet.” 

He waited until Voldemort settled himself. The waiting was agony. 

Every second stretched eternally and Harry had to restrain himself. His mouth was watering in earnest now. 

Finally, Voldemort’s hand drifted down to part the front of his robes, revealing his lovely, soft cock. 

“You may,” Voldemort said. 

With a groan Harry surged forward, placing his hands upon the silken fabric covering Voldemort’s thighs and nuzzled his face into the musky heat of him. The pain in his scar fled as soon as his nose touched the soft flesh of Voldemort’s cock, but it wasn’t enough. 

Harry opened his mouth and touched the velvety foreskin with his tongue. He slid his tongue eagerly beneath the shaft as Voldemort lifted his flaccid cock and fed it into Harry’s mouth. As soon as Voldemort was inside him, that golden feeling of warmth and wholeness stole over Harry’s entire body.

He gave a cheeky suckle which had Voldemort gripping his hair once again. 

“Not now. I only require you to keep me warm.” 

Harry relaxed, and let the soft weight of Voldemort’s cock rest heavy upon his tongue, savoring the salty, clean flavor. He settled his chin on the chair between Voldemort’s legs and the man’s thighs bracketed his head and his balls nestled against Harry’s chin. 

Harry took a deep, calming breath through his nose and allowed himself to drift, floating on the feeling of warmth and wholeness. He cradled Voldemort’s cock on his tongue as if it were a precious thing. And it was, for it kept the pain away and brought Harry pleasure and warmth and belonging that he’d never felt before. 

His jaw would soon ache and the drool would leak from his mouth to puddle around his chin as he would only occasionally swallow. The game was over when Voldemort hardened and came, and Harry didn’t want that, not yet. The pain in his knees and the ache of his jaw and his own cock was sweet. Here beneath the desk no one could see his shame and pleasure in the submission. Not even Voldemort’s Death Eaters, who would come in to give reports. 

It gave Harry a thrill to hear the fear in Draco or Lucius Malfoy’s voices when they spoke to their Dark Lord. There was also the vindictive joy in knowing Bellatrix was blissfully unaware that Harry Potter was knelt beneath Voldemort’s desk with Voldemort’s cock in his mouth when he knew full well that Bellatrix would’ve killed to be in his position. 

The whole world fell away and Harry drifted, the only thing anchoring him to the real world was the cock in his mouth. He could—and did—stay that way for hours, until at last, Voldemort would touch his hair again, a signal that their time was up. 

Harry blinked, coming back to himself. Voldemort’s cock gave a twitch on his tongue and began to thicken. 

“You’ve kept me beautifully warm, my pet,” Voldemort purred. “Now I shall give you what you crave.”

Harry had a mild moment of familiar panic as the cock in his mouth filled—Harry had a difficult time swallowing the whole thing when it was hard—but Voldemort’s hands threaded into his hair on either side of his face and held him still. 

“You can breathe again in a moment,” Voldemort said, his voice washing over Harry in soothing waves. “I will not let you suffocate. Just relax, as I’ve taught you.” Harry closed his eyes and relaxed his throat. The words were part of the ritual. 

Voldemort loosened his grip on Harry’s hair and Harry pulled backwards until just the tip was still in his mouth. He sucked the head, lapping at the bitter-salt precome that leaked from the slit. Voldemort’s fingers tightened on his scalp again and he pulled Harry’s head downwards. Harry took a deep breath through his nose before his air supply was cut off once more. 

Voldemort mercilessly held Harry in place while Harry swallowed around his gag reflex and his vision blacked out from lack of oxygen before he was allowed to pull back. 

They repeated this dance several more times until Voldemort made a low growling sound in his throat and stood up, forcibly pulling Harry by the hair out from under the desk. Harry was still on his knees but Voldemort, now standing, had the leverage he needed. 

He gripped Harry’s hair just above his ears and snapped his hips, thrusting into Harry’s willing mouth. Harry just kept his eyes closed and his jaw open, his lips curled over his teeth as he let Voldemort use him as he wished. 

Voldemort gave one last rough thrust and spilled down Harry’s throat. Harry swallowed through it, drinking down every bit of come, his nose pressed tight into the dark hair at the base of Voldemort’s cock.

Harry pulled far enough back to breathe, but kept his lips closed around the head, sucking every last drop of come from Voldemort’s cock. He stayed that way until Voldemort pulled his softening cock from Harry’s mouth and he whined at the loss. His scar prickled and sent a warning pulse of pain jolting through his body, but Voldemort’s hands still tangled in his hair, caressing and keeping the pain at bay. 

Voldemort lifted him roughly up and pulled him in for a deep, bruising kiss. His hands almost gently cradled the back of Harry’s head and neck, his thumb sweeping over the pulse point as he devoured Harry’s mouth like a man starving. 

This, too, was part of the ritual. 

When Voldemort pulled away, Harry came fully back to reality, his throat sore, his scar throbbing, and his lips swollen and bruised. 

“You did very well, my horcrux,” Voldemort murmured, as he reached down between their bodies and wrapped his fingers around Harry’s cock. 

It never took long for Harry to come after he’d had Voldemort in his mouth. He muffled his cry against Voldemort’s shoulder as stripes of Harry’s come spattered his fine robes. They stayed like that for a long moment, Harry breathing heavily and Voldemort gently cradling Harry’s softening cock in his palm. A wordless spell took care of the mess. 

Voldemort didn’t look any different than he had when Harry was first captured so long ago; there was an ageless beauty about him, as if he were untouched by time. Harry knew he didn’t look much different either, when he could bring himself to look in the mirror (which wasn’t often, these days). Neither of them wore their true ages upon their faces. Whatever dark magic Voldemort had woven around the both of them kept the years at bay. 

The glimpses Harry had seen of the Death Eaters around Malfoy manor, however, truly showed the passage of time. Bellatrix’s hair was more white than black now, and Lucius looked as though he’d aged three decades instead of one. Even Draco looked haggard and worn. Draco, who could never quite meet Harry’s eye, who all but fled whenever Harry entered the room he was in. The years had not been kind to the Malfoy family. 

When Harry pulled away, pain and the hopeless reality of his situation crashed over him like a wave breaking upon the shore. Voldemort held him close, stroking his hair, his back, whispering soothing sweet nothings into Harry’s hair while Harry pressed his scar to the center of the man’s chest and wept. 


End file.
